King Lear — Act 4
Enter Edgar.
EDGAR.
Yet better thus, and known to be contemn’d, Than still contemn’d and flatter’d. To be worst, The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune, Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear: The lamentable change is from the best;
The worst returns to laughter.
Welcome then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace;
The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts.
Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man.
But who comes here?
My father, poorly led?
World, world, O world!
But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, Life would not yield to age.
OLD MAN.
O my good lord, I have been your tenant, and your father’s tenant these fourscore years.
GLOUCESTER.
Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone.
Thy comforts can do me no good at all;
Thee they may hurt.
OLD MAN.
You cannot see your way.
GLOUCESTER.
I have no way, and therefore want no eyes;
I stumbled when I saw.
Full oft ’tis seen Our means secure us, and our mere defects Prove our commodities.
O dear son Edgar, The food of thy abused father’s wrath!
Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I’d say I had eyes again!
OLD MAN.
How now!
Who’s there?
EDGAR.
[_Aside.
_] O gods!
Who is’t can say ‘I am at the worst’?
I am worse than e’er I was.
OLD MAN.
’Tis poor mad Tom.
EDGAR.
[_Aside.
_] And worse I may be yet.
The worst is not So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.
’ OLD MAN.
Fellow, where goest?
GLOUCESTER.
Is it a beggar-man?
OLD MAN.
Madman, and beggar too.
GLOUCESTER.
He has some reason, else he could not beg.
I’ the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw;
Which made me think a man a worm.
My son Came then into my mind, and yet my mind Was then scarce friends with him.
I have heard more since.
As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, They kill us for their sport.
EDGAR.
[_Aside.
_] How should this be?
Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Angering itself and others.
Bless thee, master!
GLOUCESTER.
Is that the naked fellow?
OLD MAN.
Ay, my lord.
GLOUCESTER.
Then prythee get thee away.
If for my sake Thou wilt o’ertake us hence a mile or twain, I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love, And bring some covering for this naked soul, Which I’ll entreat to lead me.
OLD MAN.
Alack, sir, he is mad.
GLOUCESTER.
’Tis the time’s plague when madmen lead the blind.
Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure;
Above the rest, be gone.
OLD MAN.
I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have, Come on’t what will.
[_Exit.
_] GLOUCESTER.
Sirrah naked fellow.
EDGAR.
Poor Tom’s a-cold.
[_Aside.
_] I cannot daub it further.
GLOUCESTER.
Come hither, fellow.
EDGAR.
[_Aside.
_] And yet I must.
Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.
GLOUCESTER.
Know’st thou the way to Dover?
EDGAR.
Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath.
Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits.
Bless thee, good man’s son, from the foul fiend!
Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of darkness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women.
So, bless thee, master!
GLOUCESTER.
Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven’s plagues Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched Makes thee the happier.
Heavens deal so still!
Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he does not feel, feel your power quickly;
So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough.
Dost thou know Dover?
EDGAR.
Ay, master.
GLOUCESTER.
There is a cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully in the confined deep: Bring me but to the very brim of it, And I’ll repair the misery thou dost bear With something rich about me: from that place I shall no leading need.
EDGAR.
Give me thy arm: Poor Tom shall lead thee.
[_Exeunt.
_] SCENE II.
Before the Duke of Albany’s Palace Enter Goneril, Edmund;
Oswald meeting them.
GONERIL.
Welcome, my lord.
I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way.
Now, where’s your master?
OSWALD.
Madam, within; but never man so chang’d. I told him of the army that was landed;
He smil’d at it: I told him you were coming;
His answer was, ‘The worse.
’ Of Gloucester’s treachery And of the loyal service of his son When I inform’d him, then he call’d me sot, And told me I had turn’d the wrong side out.
What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him;
What like, offensive.
GONERIL.
[_To Edmund.
_] Then shall you go no further.
It is the cowish terror of his spirit, That dares not undertake.
He’ll not feel wrongs Which tie him to an answer.
Our wishes on the way May prove effects.
Back, Edmund, to my brother;
Hasten his musters and conduct his powers.
I must change names at home, and give the distaff Into my husband’s hands.
This trusty servant Shall pass between us.
Ere long you are like to hear, If you dare venture in your own behalf, A mistress’s command.
[_Giving a favour.
_] Wear this; spare speech;
Decline your head.
This kiss, if it durst speak, Would stretch thy spirits up into the air.
Conceive, and fare thee well.
EDMUND.
Yours in the ranks of death.
[_Exit Edmund.
_] GONERIL.
My most dear Gloucester.
O, the difference of man and man!
To thee a woman’s services are due;
My fool usurps my body.
OSWALD.
Madam, here comes my lord.
[_Exit.
_] Enter Albany.
GONERIL.
I have been worth the whistle.
ALBANY.
O Goneril!
You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face!
I fear your disposition;
That nature which contemns its origin Cannot be bordered certain in itself.
She that herself will sliver and disbranch From her material sap, perforce must wither And come to deadly use.
GONERIL.
No more; the text is foolish.
ALBANY.
Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile;
Filths savour but themselves.
What have you done?
Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d?
A father, and a gracious aged man, Whose reverence even the head-lugg’d bear would lick, Most barbarous, most degenerate, have you madded.
Could my good brother suffer you to do it?
A man, a prince, by him so benefitted!
If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, It will come, Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep.
GONERIL.
Milk-liver’d man!
That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;
Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know’st Fools do those villains pity who are punish’d Ere they have done their mischief.
Where’s thy drum?
France spreads his banners in our noiseless land;
With plumed helm thy state begins to threat, Whilst thou, a moral fool, sitt’st still, and criest ‘Alack, why does he so?
’ ALBANY.
See thyself, devil!
Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.
GONERIL.
O vain fool!
ALBANY.
Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for shame!
Be-monster not thy feature!
Were’t my fitness To let these hands obey my blood, They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and bones.
Howe’er thou art a fiend, A woman’s shape doth shield thee.
GONERIL.
Marry, your manhood, mew!
Enter a Messenger.
ALBANY.
What news?
MESSENGER.
O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s dead;
Slain by his servant, going to put out The other eye of Gloucester.
ALBANY.
Gloucester’s eyes!
MESSENGER.
A servant that he bred, thrill’d with remorse, Oppos’d against the act, bending his sword To his great master; who, thereat enrag’d, Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him dead;
But not without that harmful stroke which since Hath pluck’d him after.
ALBANY.
This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge!
But, O poor Gloucester!
Lost he his other eye?
MESSENGER.
Both, both, my lord.
This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer;
’Tis from your sister.
GONERIL.
[_Aside.
_] One way I like this well;
But being widow, and my Gloucester with her, May all the building in my fancy pluck Upon my hateful life.
Another way The news is not so tart.
I’ll read, and answer.
[_Exit.
_] ALBANY.
Where was his son when they did take his eyes?
MESSENGER.
Come with my lady hither.
ALBANY.
He is not here.
MESSENGER.
No, my good lord; I met him back again.
ALBANY.
Knows he the wickedness?
MESSENGER.
Ay, my good lord.
’Twas he inform’d against him;
And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course.
ALBANY.
Gloucester, I live To thank thee for the love thou show’dst the King, And to revenge thine eyes.
Come hither, friend, Tell me what more thou know’st. [_Exeunt.
_] SCENE III.
The French camp near Dover Enter Kent and a Gentleman.
KENT.
Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back, know you no reason?
GENTLEMAN.
Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of, which imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger that his personal return was most required and necessary.
KENT.
Who hath he left behind him general?
GENTLEMAN.
The Mareschal of France, Monsieur La Far.
KENT.
Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief?
GENTLEMAN.
Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence;
And now and then an ample tear trill’d down Her delicate cheek.
It seem’d she was a queen Over her passion; who, most rebel-like, Sought to be king o’er her.
KENT.
O, then it mov’d her.
GENTLEMAN.
Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest.
You have seen Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears Were like a better day.
Those happy smilets That play’d on her ripe lip seem’d not to know What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropp’d. In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most belov’d, If all could so become it.
KENT.
Made she no verbal question?
GENTLEMAN.
Faith, once or twice she heav’d the name of ‘father’ Pantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart;
Cried ‘Sisters, sisters!
Shame of ladies!
sisters!
Kent!
father!
sisters!
What, i’ the storm?
i’ the night?
Let pity not be believ’d!
’ There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamour master’d her: then away she started To deal with grief alone.
KENT.
It is the stars, The stars above us govern our conditions;
Else one self mate and make could not beget Such different issues.
You spoke not with her since?
GENTLEMAN.
No. KENT.
Was this before the King return’d?
GENTLEMAN.
No, since.
KENT.
Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear’s i’ the town;
Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers What we are come about, and by no means Will yield to see his daughter.
GENTLEMAN.
Why, good sir?
KENT.
A sovereign shame so elbows him.
His own unkindness, That stripp’d her from his benediction, turn’d her To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights To his dog-hearted daughters, these things sting His mind so venomously that burning shame Detains him from Cordelia.
GENTLEMAN.
Alack, poor gentleman!
KENT.
Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not?
GENTLEMAN.
’Tis so; they are afoot.
KENT.
Well, sir, I’ll bring you to our master Lear And leave you to attend him.
Some dear cause Will in concealment wrap me up awhile;
When I am known aright, you shall not grieve Lending me this acquaintance.
I pray you, go along with me.
[_Exeunt.
_] SCENE IV.
The French camp.
A Tent Enter with drum and colours, Cordelia, Physician and Soldiers.
CORDELIA.
Alack, ’tis he: why, he was met even now As mad as the vex’d sea; singing aloud;
Crown’d with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, With harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.
